Seven days of silence in a house large enough to hold it. Seven days of passing each other in hallways like strangers, of meals taken alone, of a bed that grew colder with each night. And now this message on my phone, two hours old and already a broken promise.
Wait for me. I'll come get you.
I struggled to find a car. The blizzard had choked the streets. Every driver had either gone home or was charging triple to crawl through the drifts. I waited in the restaurant office for over an hour, the radiator clicking uselessly against the cold, watching the snow pile against the glass while my phone stayed silent.
Growing anxious, I pulled on my coat and headed downstairs. The stairwell was dim, the overhead bulb flickering. I called Gio. Once. Twice. Three times. The phone rang out each time, that hollow, repeating tone that felt like mockery. On the fourth attempt, the line connected for a single breath and then went dead.
He'd hung up on me.
Giordano Valente, the man who had sworn a blood-bound oath to protect me, who had kissed my hand in front of his Don and promised I would never want for anything, did not want to speak to me.
Helplessness settled into my chest first, followed closely by fear. I was three months pregnant. The snow was blinding. The temperature was dropping by the minute. I pushed through the front door of the restaurant and stepped out into the storm, my thoughts spiraling, my breath coming in short, visible bursts.
In my rush, I missed the last step.
The fall was sudden and graceless. My ankle turned, my balance vanished, and I went down hard on the frozen sidewalk. The impact jolted through my body like a current. I sat there on the ice-slicked concrete, the snow soaking through my coat, and felt it almost immediately.
A warm, wet sensation spreading beneath me.
Sweat broke across my skin despite the cold. My hands were shaking. I knew. In that terrible, clarifying instant, I knew I was losing the baby.
I called Gio first. My fingers were numb and clumsy on the screen. The phone rang and rang. He did not answer.
A few minutes later, a text appeared.
Take a cab home. Something urgent came up. I can't make it.
Something urgent. Something more urgent than his wife. More urgent than his child.
I don't remember exactly how I managed it, but before the darkness closed in, I called for an ambulance. The phone slipped from my hand onto the snow. The last thing I saw was the blizzard swallowing the streetlights above me, one by one, until there was nothing.
When I woke, it was already the next day.
The ambulance had arrived in time to save me. The paramedics had found me half-conscious on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, my coat soaked through with blood and snowmelt. They told me later that another ten minutes and it might have been different.
But the baby was gone.
I lay in the hospital bed and tried to understand it. Tried to make the words mean something real. But the grief was too large, too shapeless, too heavy to hold in my hands. No one knew how much I had wanted this child. No one knew the hours I had spent talking to her when I was alone, my palm pressed flat against my stomach, whispering promises about the life I would give her. From the moment I had found out I was pregnant, I had been building a world for her in my mind. Her first steps. Her first word. The way she would look up at me with Gio's dark eyes. I did not want to miss a single thing.
And now there was nothing to miss.
I checked my phone. The screen was cracked from the fall, a spiderweb fracture running across the glass, but it still worked.
No missed calls from Giordano.
Not one.
I was about to dial his number, ready to tell him what had happened, ready to hear his voice break when he learned what his absence had cost us, when I saw an update from Chiara Soriano on social media.
Thank you, Gio. Both my baby and I are doing great.
Attached was a photograph of a positive pregnancy test, held up against a background I recognized. The leather armrest of Gio's car. The car he should have been driving to pick me up.
So that was where he had been all night. While I lay bleeding on a frozen sidewalk, while our child slipped away from me in the dark, my husband had been with another woman, tending to another woman's child.
I stared at the screen until the crack in the glass blurred with my tears. Then I set the phone down on the hospital blanket, face down, and stared at the ceiling.
